


I could almost swear I felt us float

by crookedspoon



Series: Spicing up the Autumn 2017 [9]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Asphyxiation, Frottage, Homicidal Ideation, How Do I Tag, Kinktober 2017, M/M, Murder Fantasies, POV Ronan Lynch, POV Second Person, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 06:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12316023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: "Truth, then: you ever kill someone?"





	I could almost swear I felt us float

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorkaitlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/gifts).



> For Day #9 "Asphyxiation" at Kinktober.
> 
> I'm going to chill today, it said. I'm not going to write anything today, it said. But then it did anyway, frantically, just throwing this out here before leaving for a concert. In other words: this is rather barebones. Sorry for the talking heads.
> 
> Inspired by "A bullet in your head is how I want it,” the one in which Ronan fantasises about gruesomely murdering Greenmantle.

"Here, drink up," Kavinsky says and tips the contents of your cup into your mouth. Some of it spills down your chin. "There you go." 

His thumb catches the droplets and brings them to his lips, gaze charcoal-black and glinting. You steal them back with a kiss.

"You're not getting out of this so easy," he says and presses you back against your seat, grinding down against you. "So, what's it gonna be: truth or dare?"

You exhale loudly, letting him know what you think of his games. Not that he's ever listening. "Truth," you say, because truth is what you know. Truth is safe.

"So boring, Lynch. Won't you ever pick dare? I've got so many fun ideas."

You smirk at him.

You know he does.

You also know he hates it when you won't let him unspool them.

"Truth then. Whatever." He shrugs. "You ever kill someone? And don't give me your silence bullshit. I wanna hear you say it."

What does it matter, is what you think, he's probably not going to remember in the morning. "Only in my head," is what you say and it's true. Whelk's death wasn't your fault and neither was your father's, no matter how guilty you feel about it.

"Mmh," Kavinsky hums his approval and takes another drink. "Don't just clamp up again, man. Tell me more. Who was it? Anyone I know? How'd you do it? I bet it was bloody."

"It's gonna be you next time if you don't let up."

"Aww, so you do think of me when I'm not around." He gestures with his cup so that it sloshes and a bit splashes onto your shirt. "I'm flattered. Now spill, I wanna hear everything."

"The only one who's spilling anything is you."

You grab his shoulders and maneuver him off your lap. He goes easily, giggly with liquor, but one hand holds on to you, as if he was hoping you'd reverse your positions.

"My turn now."

"Oh, baby."

"Truth or dare."

"C'mon, we weren't done discussing your dirty deeds. Don't puss out now. I'll tell you mine." 

He says it like it's a bargaining chip. You try not to be interested, but it's difficult when Kavinsky is biting the rim of his cup and grinning around it. Fuck, it turns you on when he uses his teeth, even when it's not on you, when he slides his hands possessively up your arms, when he gulps down the last of the dream booze, spits the cup to the side and pulls you down nose to nose with him, breathing your air.

"C'mon, babe, walk me through it," he urges you not just with his words but with his body too, guiding your hand up his torso, worrying your lips between his teeth, grinding his clothed erection up against you. "Or better yet: show me."

Your breath hitches when he brings your hand to rest around his throat. His eyes are gleaming and intense, so is his smile. His face softens when your hips rub against his. 

You consider the jut of his throat against your palm and slide your thumb across it. You dick twitches when Kavinsky swallows.

"You really wanna hear it?" you ask and smooth your hand up to his jaw, then down to his collarbones, feeling his reckless pulse tripping against your skin.

"Don't keep me in suspense, asshole, or I might fall asleep."

He talks big but his brave front is crumbling. He's jittery with anticipation.

You draw it out by leaning down to kiss him, slowly, sensuously, and he moans into your mouth, fingers digging into your back.

"I think about my father's murderer," you breathe against his lips, hoping he won't hear.

But he does: "That's so Shakespeare, man." He scrapes his teeth over your skin and hugs his legs around your waist. "Go on, what does he look like? Or no, changed my mind, I don't care. Tell me, what's your weapon of choice?"

"I don't care so long as it does the job. A gun. A knife. Sometimes even my bare hands."

His gasp is cut off as you press down on his throat. There's no escaping this now. His legs wind around you tighter and his boner is chafing against yours.

"I think about how I want to blow his brains out of the back of his skull."

You ease up to let him breathe again. "Fuck, yeah," he groans and spins your image wider. "Just imagine that giant explosion of brain matter behind him. I dig it."

"But it's over too quick."

"Often is with you," he sniggers.

You squeeze his windpipe again. You don't want to hear his comments anymore. They're distracting.

His eyes are trained on you, feverish but steady, and more than willing to drink in your secrets.

"I like to stab him with a knife. Punch through his stomach, his ribs, his neck." Kavinsky jerks beneath you as you choke him harder. Then you add more quietly, "Even his eyes."

Kavinsky makes a desperate noise and his fingers cup your face, trembling like moth's wings.

"When I slice his throat," you puff against his neck, drawing a nail across it to illustrate, and his throat works against your palm, "warm blood sprays against my face like in a slasher movie."

His body is seizing beneath you, hips bucking, throat clenching, but he lets it happen with a blissed-out smile on his face. You kiss him sweetly through it all, and you won't ever admit how much the lack of air in his mouth is turning you on.

You grind your dick against him, frantic, frenzied, and feeling utterly fantastic beneath that sick coat of shame you're lugging around with you for the vileness of your thoughts.

You come with a cry and bite Kavinsky's shoulder. He's no longer tensing against you. In fact, he's pliable like a cloth doll, head fallen to the side, eyes closed, mouth slack.

Jesus Mary shit fuck, is your first thought. You untangle yourself from him, sick and guilty for having used him for your pleasure like this, to the point where you were no longer aware of what you were doing.

His chest appears to be rising, but it might as well be the jostling. You hold your hand to his mouth and only when you feel his warm breath against you can you relax.

Holy shit, your limbs are like jello now. Fucker already looks like the dead, so how were you supposed to tell? You scrub your hands over your face, trying to calm your nerves. It's not the first time you've seen him unconscious, but it's certainly the first time it was your fault.

Making sure Kavinsky is in a stable position, you walk to the bathroom on shaky legs and throw a cold washcloth into your face. It centers you a little, though not much.

Once you've cleaned yourself, you soak another washcloth and slap it into Kavinsky's face.

He stirs with a sharp intake of breath.

"What the fuck," he says and rubs his throat. A five finger handprint is already blooming darkly on his skin. "Did you just choke me out?"

His eyes find yours and a stupid grin explodes on his face. He weakly nudges your arm with his knuckles.

"That was the hottest thing you've ever done, man. Holy fuck."

You're still jittery, but you believe him and let him drag you down toward him. He's soft and warm and you bury your head in the crook of his shoulder.

"Lynch?" he says after a while of scratching your back.

You grunt in response.

"I really hope you catch that bastard who did your old man in."

You huff and sink your teeth into him, no longer willing to think about this.

He sucks in a slow, but audible breath. "I also hope you're gonna let me watch when you do."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Oxygen" by Twelve Foot Ninja.
> 
> Tumblr post for reblogging convenience can be found [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/166644722060/kinktober-day-9-asphyxiation).


End file.
